The Concerned Caretakers
by CarleyCavalier
Summary: Beatrice and Bertrand Baudelaire watch seventeen-year-old Violet mingle at a VFD party. They quickly become concerned. Drabble. Slightly AU. Violaf!
1. Chapter 1

"It has been said that the hardest job in the world is raising a child, but the people who say this have probably never worked at a comb factory or captured pirates on the high seas." ~Lemony Snicket, _Horseradish_

* * *

Beatrice's husband found her by the punch bowl. She had just finished a conversation with R, reminiscing quietly about VFD training and the foul makeup used for disguises. R had laughed and passed her thumbs under her eyes, attempting to scrub away the memory of what wasn't there. Beatrice saw a quizzical expression uncurl on her round face as Bertrand approached, looking unusually serious. R excused herself as Bertrand came close, taking his wife's hand immediately. His hands were clammy and large where hers were smooth and tiny.

Before she could ask, Bertrand explained, "I'm concerned."

Beatrice frowned, squeezing her husband's hand and scanning the crowd before them, searching for a potential trigger.

Within a crowd of straight-backed scholars and erudite professors, well-dressed and chatting, was Klaus. Eyes bright and focussed, he was explaining something to the crowd, waving his hands in small arcs to describe an idea. The men laughed delightedly, one with a large mustache and glasses stepping forward to clap him on the shoulder.

"Aye!" the man crowed, causing Klaus to grin. "Of course that's how it should work! Aye!"

Sensing no unease, Beatrice again scanned the ballroom until she spotted Violet who was clutching a small drink and speaking with someone whose back was turned, obscuring their face from her line of vision. Judging by Violet's smile- a strange smirk, never before witnessed- she was enjoying herself more than she thought she would.

That left Sunny, who was presumably with her Uncle Monty. He had insisted on reuniting her with an incredibly deadly friend and had whisked her away before Beatrice had any time to protest, not that she would have.

With all of her children enjoying themselves, and only her husband with a problem, Beatrice was thoroughly confused. Several scenarios ran through her mind: _Have our eagles returned? Did you see green smoke? Was that man in the bullfighter's costume who I thought?_

Her questions easily dissipated, though. If it was really serious, Bertrand would have gotten straight to the point in any way possible.

"Why're you concerned? This has been nice." Beatrice said, as Bertrand stole a sip of her punch. He nodded towards Violet, who was grinning and shaking her head, vigorously denying a teasing accusation.

"She's having fun." He said sourly, glancing from his daughter to his mocking wife.

"The horror!" Beatrice smiled, bumping their shoulders.

"Look who she's being happy with!" He frowned, unamused.

Again, when Beatrice watched her daughter, she could only see the back of who Violet was speaking with, catching flashes of fabric and fingertips and shiny shoes. Through the crowd, Violet's companion was completely unidentifyable.  
"Who-?" Beatrice started, raising onto her tiptoes to attempt to peer over the bowl-shaped hats, aquatic helmets, and jelled hair.

"It's Count Olaf." Bertrand stated, watching his wife, who saw Violet's face turn red as she rolled her eyes and fiddled with her drink.

"Oh..." Beatrice muttered, lowering herself onto flat feet and feeling thoroughly conflicted. She had history with Count Olaf, they both did. Memories of a sticky theatre floor beneath her knees as she took aim, her heart in her mouth, and cool darts in her hands made that fact irrefutable.

When Olaf was found on an island with only some bitter apples, a featherless birdcage, and a salty raft of books, Captain Widdershins brought him to the newest headquarters in the Valley of Four Drafts and gave him a role in VFD besides villainy. It had been three years and Olaf had been accepted warily.  
There were still those, like R, who were cautious and accusational. Olaf took all the accusations with a roll of his eyes and a boisterous, _"Do you think I would mess up your Verbal Fridge Dialogue? I'm far too important here than to meddle with the lowly correspondences of you and your... whatever. Maybe you should choose a less-public fridge before sculpting your love into a frequently-used jam lid."_

Despite the caution, there had never been anything to warrant R's suspicion. Both Beatrice and Bertrand had avoided him as much as possible, speaking around him in meetings and looking in his general direction but not at him- they never instigated anything more than tacit recognition of each other.

Tonight, though, all they could do was watch. When the crowds began to thin, searching for their partners instead of mingling, Beatrice finally recognized Olaf, standing tall and formally-dressed before her daughter, who seemed amused and bold.

"What do we do?" Beatrice asked her husband, who was similarly conflicted. Instead of answering, Bertrand mused, "You know, she's been getting those letters. She built a little metal bird that flies to the mail slot below the door to stop the pulley she built from dinging. It carries all the mail to her and comes back with less each time. Figured they were from one of the Quagmire boys. Quigley always adored her. But now..."

Both parents watched as the lights dimmed and the tinny music spiked. Couples waded into the middle and began to dance, twirling rapidly, colors of bright dresses blurring together. They saw Count Olaf turn to examine the crowd, shiny eyes surprised. He obviously hadn't expected the dancing.

Olaf joined Violet against the wall to make room for the dancers, their backs flat, their eyes locked. He said something and nodded at the dancing couples. Violet shrugged, rolling her drink around and muttering a quick response that made the Count laugh.

He peeled himself away from the wall and held out his hand with a smirk and a slight bow. Beatrice could almost hear him drawl, "_I suppose I could give you the honor of dancing with me, mighty inventor."_

And Violet hesitated. With fingers outstretched to grasp the Count's, she felt the distinct pressure of familiar stares. Her dark eyes cut immediately through the crowd to where her parents were craning their necks to study her next move.  
When Beatrice met her daughter's stern eyes, she felt strangely guilty. As if she were watching some intimate, wholly human act as a completely unwelcome bystander.

Noting the young woman's drastic change in expression, Count Olaf turned to see the parents watching with utmost attention. Bertrand's shoulders were square and defensive while Beatrice knew that her narrowed, protective glare was enough in itself to unnerve him.

Olaf froze.

With one last warning glare to the pair of concerned caretakers, Violet took his hand and led him to the edge of the swiftly-moving crowd, disappearing from view.

"Well. Looks like she made her choice." Beatrice said, proud for a reason that had no why.

Occasionally, she and Bertrand would catch glimpses of Violet's dark hair swirling as they danced. After a few songs and hearing her laugh over the music, Bertrand leaned his head against his wife's shoulder and muttered, "I'd rather face the Bombinating Beast or battle a battalion of Lachrymose leeches on a full stomach than see him hurt her."

Beatrice reached up to pat his cheek fondly and smile, "I know. But I don't think you'll have to."

The couple stepped obliviously into view then, twirling across the ballroom floor, Olaf shouting to anyone who happened to hear, "Get out of the way! I must dance spectacularly with this charming young woman!"

He was pointing to random people, to her, to himself whenever he had a free hand and saying things that had her laughing so hard she could barely dance. Eventually, he tightened an arm around her waist and and made her stand atop his shiny shoes so he could insult people and she could laugh all she wanted.  
Watching them dance, Beatrice and Bertrand were both thinking the same thing, _'She cares about him; she's seventeen...'_

The lights blackened while Bertrand's back was turned to fill their cup of punch.  
Only Beatrice saw the remaining light pinpoint into nothing as every light dropped for a few seconds, marking the ending of the evening. But what she saw in those few moments was imprinted behind her eyes in technicolor.  
Violet on her tiptoes, hands on the Count's cheeks as he tilted his head and pressed their lips almost desperately together. He was moving his hands to her waist before the blackness took over, concealing the scene from any and all potential witnesses.

Except one.

When the lights popped back into casting shadows and the crowd cheered and the room swelled with noise, Beatrice saw Violet wading back through the crowd on her own, heading in their direction in search of beverages.  
"We're going to have a talk tonight." Beatrice told her daughter seriously, handing her two glasses full of neon blue punch that could have been used as anti-venom should the need ever arise.

Violet didn't blush or avoid her eyes like Beatrice had predicted, just smiled and nodded, taking the glasses gratefully.

"I suppose we've got a lot to talk about." Violet agreed, glancing back in the direction of the center of the ballroom and peering quizzically at her Dad. Beatrice waved her hands, shooing her daughter back to where a man doubtlessly waited.

When his daughter was gone, Bertrand sighed and said, "A boy I could deal with. But he's a man. How do I deal with my seventeen-year-old daughter being with a _man_?"

Feeling better about the situation than she thought she would, Beatrice took a gulp of her drink and smiled to her husband, taking his hand.  
"Don't worry, Mr. Baudelaire," she teased, "You'll figure it out."

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**For those of you (Okay, all of you.) who have read my WIP, ****_I Will Love You As_****, you may notice some distinct similarities, like Violet's ornithopter or Beatrice discussing the VFD makeup with R. Those were entirely intentional.**

**The man that was speaking to Klaus in the crowd was supposed to be Captain Widdershins. The man in the bullfighter's costume was a nod at Lemony's infamous disguise.**

**This is what I did today in school instead of French.**

**Let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

Violet was never meant to find out this way. That's what Beatrice kept insisting, panicked. That no one was supposed to find out yet, not one person, not her _daughter_.

It made no difference to Violet what she was or was not meant to know. The situation that she was left in- that they, that all of them, were left in- was as intricate and tricky as the Devil's Tongue knot.

It had started with a note. Violet had been in Mr. Remora's class during VFD training, halfheartedly listening to some personal anecdote about promise rings and tribal paint and sacred beads while the teacher thickened his mustache with banana pulp. Her notes consisted of scribbles of main events, names, and anything that may have been crucial in the future. The best note she had penned so far was up in the corner of her commonplace notebook: _Mr. Remora's weakness- bananas._

She had just finished sketching an idea for a new invention- a floating box that would sling her skipped stones back onto the shore of Briny Beach- when she felt the familiar flutter of cool metal on her ankle. Peering down, Violet saw her ornithopter, the technicolor of its wings casting tiny reflections on the emerald wood of the floor.

Her first reaction was intrigue- Who had sent her something from her own ornithopter? But she realized quickly that Klaus would have sent the one she made for him if he needed her, and the small machine was a hummingbird, not Klaus's owl. That left one person.

Violet's intrigue flipped to delight and apprehension as the hummingbird fluttered onto her lap and unfurled a wing, dropping a crumpled note. Unfolding it smoothly, Violet spotted the familiar scrawl and smiled as Mr. Remora drolled on.

'_V_,' it started in a too-dramatic loop. He had been quick and hurried. '_I've got news for you, inventor. Sneak away to the bathroom and accompany your loverly boyfriend to a startling scene, please, so I won't have to explain it later. Brace yourself, V. It won't be pleasant. There's something you need to see.'_

He signed it with an _O_, the space on the small note completely overtaken by his jagged scrawl. Confused and slightly scared, Violet quickly raised her hand and, at Mr. Remora's nod, made her way into the hall, tiny black shoes loud against the floor.

Count Olaf was not by the bathrooms. Instead, he was sitting on the floor a few feet away from her classroom, using a kni to pick the dirt from beneath his fingernails. Violet remembered, then, that he had led a squadron of neophytes to see the eagles and test their first aerial deliveries of coded letters. He had sent one to her as an example while she had been visiting Klaus during lunch. It had been nothing more than her name, a quick sketch of her hair ribbon, and a purple wildflower but she kept sneaking peeks at it when she had a chance.

"What's wrong?" She asked immediately, startling the Count enough to make him flinch. His shiny black eyes were wide and intense. As he got to his feet, he hissed, "Be quiet! Silent as mimes!"

Violet grabbed his hand as he held it out for her, lacing their fingers.

"Give me a general idea." She demanded quietly as they snuck down the hallway, "Are we under attack? Did you crack an important code? Have you admitted to yourself that you cannot sing?" She teased, causing the Count to pull a fondly exasperated face and pinch the hand he grasped.

"We've got no time for your sass, inventor. Something serious is happening."

He led her through a very rarely used hall, which was in the direction of an even lesser used wing of the headquarters, full of cleaning supplies and outdated laundry rooms. Violet and Quigley had snuck around it many times, figuring it held more secrets than forsaken socks and dust. They had never found anything more interesting than handfuls of loose change beneath washing machines.

"Now, I'll warn you. Your mother is involved. She's not hurt. She's happy- which is the problem." Olaf muttered as they threaded through open doors, which hid rooms full of broken furniture.

"If she's happy, what's the problem?" Violet whispered as she peeked around a corner and down a short hallway. The striped wallpaper was peeling. There were footprints pressed into the dust on the green floor. "Why would she be back here anyway? Does she have VFD business that we shouldn't be-?"

The squeal of someone rising from a chair made Violet's heart plummet. Count Olaf quickly grabbed her and tucked her into his side as they crouched behind a door. Violet could hear the Count's rapid heartbeat when he said, "She's right down the hall in the clearing by the windows. I thought you wouldn't believe me unless I showed you. Some of your best sneaking, now, Violet. I'll be right behind you."

Violet peeled herself away from the Count and into the hall and crept further, watching the floor for bits of glass or ceiling tile that would give her away if kicked. She watched where the light was coming from and where her shadow would pass. She ducked into the the darker spots of the hall, hoping to blend as much as possible.

When Violet glanced back, Olaf was right behind her, steady and supportive. She didn't know it, but in that moment he was extremely proud of her.

When she reached where the clearing began, Violet ducked to the floor and peeked hesitantly around the corner. In a large nook were several overturned chairs, illuminated by light from grimy windows that covered most of the farthest wall. In the very center of the dilapidated room, however, were two upturned chairs and a coffee table, dusted to the best of ability.

Violet saw her mother sitting in the chair facing her, with a ruddy face and dark makeup blurred around her eyes. She had been crying. This fact alone made Violet extremely uncomfortable. But then she saw a man rise to hand her a cup, which made her mother smile somewhat sadly. Beatrice swirled her straw around her root beer float and gazed at the stranger thoughtfully before taking a sip.

"I suppose the things I've done already are enough to condemn me. A woebegone wife. A loveless lover." Beatrice laughed bitterly as the stranger kneeled, placed his chin on her knees. He must have smiled, because Beatrice was grinning back, brushing fingers over the brim of his bowl-shaped hat and down his cheek.

Violet could feel the beginning of an epiphany brewing behind her eyes as she studied the straight-backed man. It was only when Violet felt Count Olaf's hand on the curl of her spine, comforting, a reminder, did she realize she was trembling.

"If he wants to leave," said the man kneeling before her mother, "then let him leave. You are terrifying and strange and beautiful. Something not everyone knows how to love."

Beatrice laughed but it sounded almost broken, accepting a fate she wanted but not the loss of pride it demanded.

She teased, fingers brushing over his lips, "You were always so fond of poetry, Mr. Snicket."

"And you," Lemony Snicket responded, nodding. "I was always fond of you."

And then her mother was kissing him.

And Violet understood.

She would not have believed Count Olaf if he had told her that her mother was having an affair with her childhood friend, the believed-dead Lemony Snicket.

Olaf's fingers were gentle along the knots of her spine.

"I can't do his now. Bertrand. I- I must speak to Bertrand. To warn him, I suppose." Beatrice said as she wiped new tears from her cheeks, mourning an old love and rejoicing the birth of a resurrected one. Lemony nodded, stealing sips of her root beer float while his sat weeping on the coffee table.

"I love you as dark things are to be loved. In secret, between the shadow and the soul... For now." He muttered, causing Beatrice to roll her eyes. "Again with the poetry."

And Violet was done. Thoroughly sick and confused, she backed up to curl against the Count, who held her until she stood.

And they would have snuck away. They would have voyaged the way they came, silently abandoning a new couple to their privacy.

But before they could, Klaus's ornithopter appeared, hooting, to deliver a concerned message to his sister- '_Why aren't you in class? Too busy with your boyfriend?_'- and the noise had been just enough to send Lemony investigating.

He found Count Olaf standing before Violet, guarding against potential rage. But when Lemony saw the eldest Baudelaire child, his brown eyes grew nostalgic as he leaned against the wall. "Violet Baudelaire. You've grown into such a charming young woman. Last time you saw me, you were very small and had already began inventing ways to remove yourself from your crib."

And then Beatrice appeared, seeing her daughter with her son's ornithopter, leaning away from her boyfriend to watch her.

"You weren't meant to find out this way." Beatrice insisted, panicked. "No one was supposed to find out yet, not one person. Not my _daughter_." But it made no difference to Violet.

The four were left with their questions and accusations and pleas being unsaid between them. Count Olaf glanced warily at Lemony Snicket. Beatrice stared brokenly at her daughter. And they stood in cluttered silence as dust settled around them, drinks lost their fizz, and the world, unfortunately, continued.

* * *

**Again, there are a few similarities in this drabble and my other fic, _I Will Love You As_, such as Violet's ornithopter and Lemony's remark about her.**

**The first poem Lemony mentions is from _For Women who are 'Difficult' to Love_ by Warson Shire. The second is from _Sonnet XVII _by Pablo Neruda. **

**Let me know what you think!**


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